Ghosts
by Viceroy Euphemia
Summary: Being unwillingly dragged to the club, he wasn't expecting to have any fun on this dry night. Ryou always goes unnoticed, so no one knows that he is full of surprises. It's my fanfiction resurrection! Please read and review I need all the crit I can get. One night stand, semi-ooc Bakura, A.U. OneShot, Tendershipping, of course!


**Title: Ghosts**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: Ryou always goes unnoticed, so no one knows that he is full of surprises. One Night Stand, semi-ooc Bakura, A.U. Tendership**

_I'm baaack! This is my first real fic in almost… four years? I've reverted back to my roots for practice. Good ol' tendershipping! Still, please do review! _

…

Ryou doesn't want to be here. Yugi and _his_ friends had dragged him along—as usual.

"It'll be fun! Seems like your kind of scene," they had said. Ryou rolled his eyes at the countertop, its colors flashing red, green, blue. He brings a drink to his pale lips.

They should know by now that crowds aren't his forte. This goes double for clubs, where hoards migrated to share sweat and needles. The reek and shouts of and laughter and the LIGHTS—gods, those blasted lights (sinking into his fragile orbs and matching that pulsing music in his head).

Never mind the fact that of course he would never admit his headache. At the end of the night, he would nod and smile and say "oh yes, I had fun. Let's do it again another time."

With a hidden bitterness, he looks over his shoulder. Yugi's leather catches the light and his eyes grab Ryou's glance. He waves, he shouts something indiscernible and Ryou nods at _whatever_ it was because Tea has distracted the young duelist. For a moment he looks about for Joey, Tristan, Duke… until he remembers how little he's supposed to care.

Another sip.

The bartender side-eyes him. In his striped polo and tight jeans, he is anything but suspicious. Maybe it's his white and downy hair that always throws them, needing to sneak another glance. Perhaps it's just the fact that he's beautiful.

His own eyes stare back from the mirror behind the rack of tumblers and colored liquid.

Suddenly, there's a second pair of the same brown. Ryou revels _how could I possibly be drunk already_, but he remembers he's not and it's the person over his shoulder. He starts.

"Yikes, didn't take you for the jumpy type."

"Ah"

"You looked so serene from far away."

It is _his own eyes_ he's looking back at, but they're sharper. They're lined with kohl. They don't miss his pores, his split ends, his fidgeting. _Under a microscope_.

"Excuse me?" The albino can't look away, can't ignore this man like he does so many others.

The man shifts his weight into an empty seat. He plays with the necklace around Ryou's neck.

"Never you mind, lonely boy. Your name?"

His silver hair is pulled into a sad ponytail. Sweat glistens on his cheekbones—water on a blade. He's been dancing? Ryou can't remember where he is. _Captivation_. His name?

He collects himself. Extends a hand. "I'm Ryou."

"Bakura," a response and a smile of sharp alabaster.

He continues, "Can I buy you a drink?"

He's familiar, but dangerous.

Ryou smiles timidly, treads carefully.

"I'm good. I mean - I already have one."

Bakura leans in.

"You're not dancing. You're barely drinking—a rum and coke, looks like. Fuck's sake. What _are_ you doing here?"

Ryou giggles easily and shrugs.

"Ah, my friends brought me. They thought I'd have fun."

"But you're not."

Ryou shakes his head. White falls into his eyes and he's quick to brush it away.

"What do you normally do for fun?" Bakura presses. This is now a conversation.

"Well, I was hoping that maybe there would be a live band." It's a mutter and another shrug, but Bakura is interested. He lifts his eyebrows. The bass pulses and swells. Yellow, red, green.

"You're into 'real music,' then," after the drop has quieted.

A nod from the younger boy, "Indie rock… classic rock…"

Bakura snaps at the tender.

"_Straight vodka_! Really now? I wouldn't take you for the type. You're full of surprises, I'd assume."

Silence when his drink arrives, but then, "I like Bowie, myself, but Alice Cooper is my favorite from the good ol' days. You look like a symphony goer."

Ryou stumbles for a response. A smirk passes Bakura's lips.

"What's that supposed to mean? Though classical is nice sometimes…" He flushes and Bakura stops chuckling to sip.

Ryou watches the man's mouth work. His adam's apple, jugular, collarbone, sweat-stained hems. Pointed eyes have found him again without his noticing.

"_I'm_ in a band, you know – er – well, I was…," Bakura's dark eyes dart about. Is that nervousness? Ryou is drawn farther in.

A flirting laugh, "Are you trying to impress me?"

The man's teeth flash and Ryou knows he'll ignore the question.

"We play metal… probably not in your Pandora stations, huh? Anyway, we were supposed to have a gig tonight buuut…"

"But?" Ryou's beverage is done, but the icy glass feels nice. His body is hot.

"I think they replaced me. Some guy named Marik? Tch."

"Oh?"

"So…"

"You came here instead."

Bakura nods and Ryou finds it similar.

"We're just a pair of rejects, aren't we?"

"Taken for granted."

Neither of them is sure who said what.

Surprising both of them, it is Ryou who suggests from under his lashes, "Let's get out of here."

Bakura's dark gaze is glittering as the younger male loops a paper white arm through the crook of his elbow. Ryou couldn't care if his friends never find him again. This Bakura –here and now- so familiar but so dangerous and (dare he say sexy?) seeing only him….

Outside, it is so much quieter. Bakura's voice is incredibly level in the shadows. They are both comfortable. The stars are their element. The shade is their home, content to go unnoticed by everyone but the other. They're talking and strolling, passing under streetlights and over parking lots.

It's in an alleyway where Bakura's nails dig into the paper of Ryou's shoulder and their wet lips meet. It's a painful surprise, but not unpleasantly so; certainly not unwelcome. Ryou bends and complies and elbows, hipbones, thighs. Breath on his neck elicits a damp whimper, "I, I…"

A growl. "What is it? What-"

"Take me to your place." He knows it is _dangerous_ and it is _wrong_, but he's decided that this is the right night to be daring. Bakura's grin is cruel, but Ryou's heart flits in his chest cavity. Pale, sharp claws draw him in at the waist.

"Do you have _any_ idea what I'm going to do to you?"

That's a whisper on his ear—a flurry of silver with words of a brighter shade.

…

_The angel is in my home. In my bed. _

…

Bakura is a cage around Ryou's body, tearing and biting at just the right moments. The room is filled with sweet cries. His moans…very unlike the modest schoolboy Bakura had been expecting. They betray Ryou's serene face. Carnal and raw, this is the energy that surrounds them, running in visible veins.

Translucent skin on black sheets like _ghosts._

Ryou can feel his bones melting or maybe they are breaking and there's that damn music again—"No, dear, it's your heart," and "oh, oh—"

Bakura is so rough and sharp, all blades and bruises, but his kisses are so wonderful.

When it's over it seems like it was only a moment; a flicker in their time, but _oh, was it delicious _and "give me your number, we'll do it again later." Alabaster smiles.

They sigh in unison and talk more about being ghosts.


End file.
